


rise and fall of the tides

by enzhe, MayWilder



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Boys In Love, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Harley is the next Iron Man, Harley's hot for Peter, Healthy Communication, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-10-01 19:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20374987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enzhe/pseuds/enzhe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayWilder/pseuds/MayWilder
Summary: Peter against him, under him, warm and enthusiastic and melting. For Harley.It’s the best, but Harley’s treacherous (genius) brain comes up with something even better.Because Peter is Spider-Man, and Harley’s brain is currently really full of Spider-Man: Spider-Man flipping through the air with the grace of a dancer. Spider-Man casually lifting a car out of the way so it wouldn’t be destroyed in the fight. Spider-Man plucking a heavily-armored man twice his size out of the air and slamming him into the asphalt. Easily. Cheerfully.That strength. That grace. That dominance.Harley wants.***Or, five times Harley wants Peter to top him and the one time he finally does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We're back with a new collab! Featuring both of our best writing efforts this time - and wow, this was fun and scary and challenging and I'm so excited to finally share it. Enjoy :)

Harley Keener is watching Peter Parker dominate a battlefield and he has never been so turned on in his life.

It’s four-against-one, and the baddies have some serious tech—they’re zooming around on actual, real-life, hydro-powered jet-packs. It’s like a whole set of Harley’s best childhood daydreams come to life right in front of his eyes. You might think it’d be too much for one adorable, mild-mannered nerd to handle. Nope. Spider-Man’s  _ got this _ . 

Comes in swinging through a surprise angle that took some amazing on-the-spot physics calculations to get right, wraps one baddie in the line he’s swinging on while simultaneously snaring another, then releases the line that’s simultaneously suspending him and tying up an opponent. Free-falls while webbing a third bad dude—uses the free web-shooter to anchor to a high-rise on the other side of the street half-a-second before he would’ve smashed into pavement. Shoots up just in time to avoid a blast from the fourth jet-packed criminal—

“Now see, kid, this is where you’d come in—Spidey’s clear for a sec, you could go full-on double-repulsor and get at least one out of action for good—Harley. Harley. Kid. You even watching?”

Iron Man snaps impatient fingers in front of his face, and Harley flinches. “Yeah, yeah, I’m clearly watching, don’t get your adult diaper in a twist—”

“You’re gonna find out what a repulsor burn feels like first hand, Keener,” Tony warns, but Harley can hear the exasperated grin. “And it only counts as watching if you’re seeing something other than your boyfriend’s ass. Which: no. That’s my kid you’re ogling. Save it for where I can’t see it. While we’re on-topic, did I give you the super-powered version of the shovel talk yet?”

“Can’t get much worse than what Miss Nat threatened.” Harley hides the reflexive shudder that memory incites with a hopefully-casual shrug. “And hey, I’m your kid, too—”

“And now you’ve made it worse,” Tony says extremely flatly. “Made it incestuous—”

“Ewww. What the fuck, seriously, Tony—”

“You kiss my sweet, innocent Pete with that mo—?”

There’s an explosion big enough to make them both stagger back a bit, and that’s it for the banter. Tony’s already off the roof, swooping into battle-smoke, and Harley’s powering up to go after him, struggling to give his AI intelligible instructions through heart-in-mouth cursing—

“Hey, Harls!”

“Nevermind, land, land!” Harley shouts, to which his AI complies, intuitively lifting his faceplate so he’s eye-to-eye with Spider-Man.  _ Peter _ .

“Pete—the fuck—you okay? You—”

“Totally good! I kicked off this one dude’s jet pack and it blew up when it hit the street. Don’t worry, I caught him before he fell! He’s totally fine. Hell of a flyer too! I told him I was impressed when I checked on him after webbing him to that building over there—”

“Yeah, not really worried about the baddies, Spidey. That mask coming up or am I making out with spandex? I need to kiss you.  _ Now _ .”

“Oh.  _ Oh _ ,” says Peter, scrambles to lift his mask up to his nose. Just in time, too, because Harley’s got gauntleted hands around his neck and shoulders and Peter’s mouth under his and it’s soft and gasping and opening and Harley takes it with tongue and steals his name from Peter’s throat and then he can finally, finally breathe.

“S-sorry, I didn’t leave much action for you,” Peter stutters, once Harley’s pulled back far enough to look him over very, very thoroughly, because he knows from unhappy experience that Peter can and will stand and laugh and chatter a-mile-a-minute on shattered-and-knitting bones.

“Zero worries,” he says once his HUD lights up with Peter’s confirmed-healthy vitals and his brain’s processed enough of the fear and the  _ hot fucking damn how is he this hot and how is he mine _ to make mostly-coherent words. “Watchin’ you is all the action I need, honey-boy.”

All he can see of Peter is his lips, the sudden inhale that stutters between them, the tongue-tip that darts out to nervously lick them. “I think Mr. Stark can handle clean-up,” he says quickly. “He owes me from last time. The last, like, four times. Doesn’t matter. Let’s go? Tower? Room?”

“Yep,” says Harley. It comes out urgent and eager and he’s a tiny bit embarrassed but mostly he just needs Peter. Now. 

Peter seems to be right on the same page, fortunately. Flips down his mask, steps towards the edge of the rooftop, arm extending to sling a web— _ too slow _ . They’re getting behind closed doors as fast as supertech-poweredly possible, and that means flying. Harley’s got his primary repulsors already on lift-off as he scoops Spider-Man up in one armored arm. Asks his AI for  _ all the juice _ as Peter eeps and clings on—the city a blur beneath them—and a blessed two-point-six minutes later, they’re landing.

Which is excellent, because Harley spent every second of the flight mentally replaying the highlights of what he’d just witnessed. The highlights being Spider-Man, inhumanly strong and graceful and smart and  _ terrifying _ . He  _ needs _ Peter, needs him somewhere he can get him out of that suit and take in every inch of skin, preferably with his mouth. Somewhere they won’t be interrupted. Immediately. 

It’s not like admiring Spider-Man is anything new. Harley’s—pardon the pretentious honesty—one of the O.G. fans. Was, in fact, the one to send Tony Stark a link to a YouTube video of some dude in a homemade costume catching a fucking bus with his bare fucking hands before casually giving the dorkiest thumbs-up ever and swinging off to, what, bench-press a couple cement mixers? Harley could only imagine.  _ what they put in that NYC water eh _ he’d texted.  _ those mutant turtles are 100% real after seeing this no one will convince me otherwise. _

Sometimes he wonders if he should apologize to Peter for that. Because the next he heard, Tony’d kidnapped the bus-catching dude and gotten him punched by Captain “I Take Down Armies With My Bare Fists” America. In fuckin’  _ Germany _ .

_ So yeah _ , he thinks, gratefully closing the door of the room he’d dragged them to and pressing Peter up against it—he’s, like, eighty percent sure it’s Peter’s room. Which is hopefully enough percents to not get his ass kicked by the Winter Soldier for interrupting his book club by being too horny to look where he’s going. Whatever, he’s got full Spidey-fanboy rights. 

And _ yeah _ , he thinks, hungrily working his way down Peter’s neck now that that pesky mask is out of the way,  _ yes yes Harley _ panting in his ear, cheering him on—he’d always found Spider-Man unfairly attractive. Particularly unfairly once he’d somehow convinced the purest, sweetest, most adorable of humans to go out with him. He, Harley Keener, got to take Peter Parker on a date. And when he asked Peter if he could kiss him goodnight, Peter said yes. And kissing Peter confirmed what Harley already sort-of knew: that nothing was worth fucking this up. Nothing.

Not even Spider-Man’s criminally attractive ass.

So he tried to tone down the private fanboying a bit. He didn’t need to drool over a superhero. He had Peter.

And then.  _ And then _ . Six weeks in, a dozen perfect dates and equally-perfect if not exactly as planned or gentlemanly impromptu make-out sessions in all sorts of places that annoyed the hell out of whichever Avenger happened to be closest later, Peter took him up to the roof, said he really, really liked Harley and wanted to be honest with him about something, and  _ leapt off of it _ .

Once Harley’d forgiven him for stopping his heart with the  _ scariest fucking moment of his entire life _ , he was pretty damn thrilled to be dating Spider-Man. Peter Parker,  _ Spider-Man _ , was with  _ Harley _ . Peter Parker, Spider-Man, was currently grinding against him, pulling away against Harley’s protests just long enough to tap the spider on his chest and release his suit, which Harley was all too happy to forget his protests and help him out of, and then his own shirt was coming off and this was the best, the absolute  _ best _ . Peter against him, under him, warm and enthusiastic and  _ melting _ . For  _ Harley _ .

It’s the best, but Harley’s treacherous (genius) brain comes up with something  _ even better _ .

Because Peter is Spider-Man, and Harley’s brain is currently really full of Spider-Man: Spider-Man flipping through the air with the grace of a dancer. Spider-Man casually lifting a car out of the way so it wouldn’t be destroyed in the fight. Spider-Man plucking a heavily-armored man twice his size out of the air and slamming him into the asphalt. Easily. Cheerfully.

That  _ strength _ . That grace. That  _ dominance _ .

Harley  _ wants _ .

“...Harley?”

“Mmm,” he manages, shuddering as he pulls himself under control, still dropping kisses—sweet, but suddenly close-lipped and barely-felt, swallowing down his immediate hunger for Peter. Lets it build and compress, a heady, heavy heat in his core, and he’s already feverish with what he’s imagining. What he’s planning.

He wants to ask Peter to take him, bend him over on that bed and bury himself inside Harley. It’s on the tip of his tongue, sentence hot and filthy and full of what he wants and needs. He’s going to say it, going to—

_ “Do you have a preference for top or bottom?” _

_ “I’m, um, I generally bottom. Like to let someone else have control and all. You?” _

_ “Depends on the partner. I’m comfortable with whatever you want.” _

Harley feels his gut twist as he keeps peppering kisses on Peter’s goosebump-ridden skin. Peter doesn’t want control, prefers someone else to take over and treat him how Harley wants to be treated. What if he doesn’t want it and rejects Harley because of it? What can Harley do to make him want it?

And then, it clicks. 

He’s going to make Peter snap.

He’s going to find out what happens when Peter can’t hold back anymore.

He’s going to push and push and push, right to the edge… but if Peter wants over that edge, he’s going to have to take control. Take Harley.

“Oh fuck,” whispers Peter. “Why are you—why are you grinning like that. It’s turning me on even more, come on Harley,  _ Harley _ —I want—”

Harley has to briefly smother himself in the pillow under Peter’s shoulder, biting his own lip hard enough it’ll hurt for days, just for the distraction— he’s so close to losing all control and letting this cunning plan fail before it’s even properly begun.

“You’re too hot,” he complains. “Gods. Why you gotta be so delicious, Peter Parker?”

Muscles shifting against his. Fingers trailing, down the nape of his neck, down his bare back, nails biting ever-so-slightly into his still-clothed ass… this is going to be so, so hard.

And so worth it.

“You want me?” Peter whispers. “Taste anything you want, Harley, I’m right here...”

_ Worth it _ , Harley reminds himself fiercely, forcefully swallowing saliva over the thought that he could just suck Peter off right now. And it would be amazing. The sounds Peter makes…

“Nahh, I think this is enough for now,” Harley says. It comes out a lot stronger than he feels, which is enough of a victory to solidify his confidence. He pushes up until his arms are straight and he’s hovering over Peter without touching, looks adoringly into that beautiful, beautiful face. “Love you more than anything.” One quick dip, a heartfelt kiss that ends up being real quick because Peter’s hands are going places Harley can’t afford to have even the slightest extra attention paid to right this second—it’s kind of embarrassing how hurriedly he leaps off the bed, but he manages a smirk and a wink smoothly enough. “Got places to be. You were fabulous out there, Spider-hottie.”

“What—” Peter’s sitting up, staring at him in confusion. And, Harley’s pretty sure, frustration.  _ Excellent _ .

He grabs his shirt on the way out, pulling it on even though he’ll be taking it off again as soon as he reaches his own room.

Time for a very, very cold shower.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter Parker is tense.

Peter Parker is confused.

Peter Parker is  _ horny. _

It doesn’t make any sense. He’s in a committed relationship. Things between him and Harley have been so undeniably good lately. He’s known, for weeks now, that he’s going to keep Harley Keener as long as he possibly can. That he’s going to be good for Harley, make him feel like there’s nobody in the world who can treat him as well as Peter can. Until Harley decides he doesn’t want Peter, Peter is going to make sure his boyfriend is safe and happy and loved.

_ And _ , he thinks,  _ we are. Harley is happy. I’m happy. We’re good together. _

Their dates are still nearly perfect. Whether they go to a movie, tour a museum, see a concert, or cook at home, they have a blast. The two of them like being around each other, and always have. They were friends first. Now that they’re dating, it hasn’t changed—Peter’s favorite company is his boyfriend. It doesn’t have to be romantic or sexual, they simply have an excellent time with each other.

Except it is that.

_ Sexual. _

Peter is lucky enough to have a boyfriend who is smart, hot, clever, and kind. Despite the fact that no human is perfect, Harley Keener is pretty damn close. And Harley’s personality translates into the bedroom—smart, hot, clever, kind. He can read Peter’s wants and desires like nobody has ever been able to. He’s attractive, and his physical training leaves him strong and oh so pleasantly shaped. Harley is… creative in bed, to say the least. But mostly? He’s kind. He’s the kind of top that whispers sweet words and takes the time to prepare, that ensures Peter feels loved and taken care of, even when he’s bent over the dining room table and fucked within an inch of his life.

And, if it isn’t too prideful to say, Peter thinks that Harley enjoys himself. He’s seen the way Harley falls apart. He can feel the charge in the air when Harley wants him, hear the sound of his heartbeat rising at the sight of Peter’s bare skin or the touch of his hand. Peter is very aware that they’re so good together.

Which is why the past few days don’t make any sense.

Ever since Peter fought those guys with jet packs (which, okay, that was pretty damn cool), Harley’s been weird. They’ve been together for a little over two months and can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. They had sex a week and a half in, and have continued to do so as often as possible. Peter doesn’t understand why he and Harley are taking it back to no more than heavy petting all of a sudden. He can’t think of a moment where he did something wrong, where something changed…

Except in his bedroom after that fight. Harley had been on him, hands wandering, grinding against him like they weren’t gonna make it to getting the last of their clothes peeled away. He can close his eyes this second and remember Harley on top of him, the slide of bare skin and the pull of teeth. Peter was in paradise, waiting for the moment nothing separated them.

And then.

Harley pulled back, made a few quipping remarks, and left Peter in his boxers, aching and flustered and confused.

A flash of confusion and something else (irritation) takes Peter aback as he enters the lobby of the tower. He’s just finished his last final for the semester. Tony has decided that he and Harley will move to the Avengers compound for the summer, where they can intensify their training. Since Harley graduated from MIT a year ago and Peter’s got one online course before graduating from Columbia, the two are set to have their “initiation” into the Avengers in only a few months. That means that May and June are going to be nothing but strategy classes, finalizing their new suits, and officially passing the baton of SI and Avengers Tech.

It’s a lot, but… Peter can’t wait.

As he steps off the elevator to find Harley and Pepper chatting in the common area, Peter’s thoughts are directed back to the other night. The feral grin, the stutter of hips… the kiss to the cheek and moment of bewilderment.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Harley says, eyes lighting up in a way they only do for Peter. “How did the final go?”

“I honestly can’t say,” Peter says. He leans in for short kiss. “How was work?”

Pepper snorts. “Harley got into an argument with the board again.”

“It’s a scholarship for kids in environmental science,” Harley pouts. “Why would we not want to encourage that? It’s ridiculous. I’m going to get it approved, one way or another.”

“Aw, is being the chief engineer not enough for you?”

“I own a third of this goddamn company. Why would I not get a say in where our scholarships go?”

“We’ve been having this argument all afternoon,” Pepper says. She picks up her coffee mug and turns to press a kiss to Peter’s temple. “Congrats on finishing your last semester, honey. We’re so proud of you. There’s a party at the compound tonight for you.”

Peter feels the blush creep up his neck. “Pepper, that’s not—”

“Tony’s already decided it, there’s nothing to be done.”

“Right,” Peter grumbles, leaning into Harley. “Kill me now.”

“There there,” Harley murmurs. “I’m sure we can find  _ something  _ pleasant about the party.”

* * *

Harley doesn’t wait long.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he whispers, not-so-gently dragging Peter into the pantry. Peter flicks his wrist back, web shooters helping him pull the door shut easily. “You just — why do you always look so good,  _ why _ ?”

Peter doesn’t have a response. As usual, he doesn’t know what to do with the compliment. He settles for pressing Harley into the shelves, cupping his face tenderly to contrast the roughness of his kiss. Harley moans at the contact, chest rising against Peter’s. There are too many clothes between them. Peter should be able to feel Harley’s heartbeat, feel the slight ridges from the tattoo over his heart and how his hair rises when—

Harley’s breath catches as Peter scratches at the base of his spine. “You look incredible when you do that, Harls, God. I just…”

Peter leans down and tastes the curve of Harley’s neck, pulling at his boyfriend’s jeans so their hips flush together. Harley lets out another rush of air, running his hands around Peter’s hips to cup his ass. His fingers knead the muscles there, rolling his hips once.

“Harls,” Peter whines. Their mouths meet again, all of Peter’s blood flooding to everything but his brain. He’s hot, he’s hard, and he briefly wonders if he can fuse himself against Harley if only so they can press closer.

He can certainly try.

Peter twists his hands into Harley’s hair, sliding one of his legs between his boyfriend’s. Harley groans and complies, spreading his legs so that he’s perched on Peter before tugging the undershirt from his pants. Callused hands slide along Peter’s abs before tracing patterns at his ribs. “Some days, I can hardly believe you picked me.”

“What?” Peter mumbles. “Are you insane?”

“You’re perfection, Peter.” Harley follows every contour on Peter’s he can find. The touch alternates between nails following the lines of muscles and fingertips brushing the hollows of bones. “Like art, or like a being crafted by the gods. Adonis, made flesh.”

Peter shivers at the huskiness of his tone, despite the cheesiness of his words.

“The first time you took your shirt off, that night I brought you back to my apartment,” Harley continues. “God, my mouth watered. I thought I could taste every fucking inch of your skin and die a happy man.”

Peter’s eyes flutter closed as Harley shoots forward to support himself on Peter and kiss him again. Peter thrusts just so, the hard line of dick rutting almost painfully against the seam of his jeans. The action moves his leg against Harley, however, and the other boy makes such a delicious noise that Peter decides he doesn’t care about the mild discomfort.

“Fuck,” Harley hisses. His fingers dig into Peter’s shoulders, moving so wantonly Peter thinks he’s going to lose his mind. “Goddamn it, Parker.”

_ This is it, _ Peter thinks gleefully. He grabs hold of Harley’s legs and lowers them to the ground, Harley on top of him. After days of that prickling feeling under his skin, the itch to lean his forehead against Harley’s and breathe in every gasp of pleasure, they’ll finally get some release.

As he’s thinking this, as he’s reaching for the button on Harley’s jeans, his boyfriend shoots up. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Peter asks. “No.”

“Tony called me.”

“Baby, I would know, I’m the one with enhanced hearing.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure—” Harley hops to his feet with more grace than anyone has right to with his pants undone and the hard line of a cock visible. “We better head on out before they come looking for us.”

And then Harley is sliding from the room. Peter watches the pantry door shut with a huff of annoyance. He buries his face in his hands and gives a muffled yell.  _ What the hell, Keener? _

_ What the actual hell?  _


	3. Chapter Three

Harley is starting to wonder if his brilliant plan is quite so brilliant after all. The desire behind it certainly hasn’t changed; if anything, it’s grown so pressing, so heated and urgent that sometimes he starts trembling just thinking about it. About Peter, what he wants with Peter, how  _ much  _ he wants Peter. It’s too much. Too much to feel, too much to want, too much to control. 

And he’s on very thin ice. Peter is certainly frustrated, but he’s also… uncertain. That damned insecurity that haunts his beautiful boyfriend is rearing its hungry, anxious head. It has no place in any objective reality, not where Peter is concerned. Peter is fucking  _ perfect _ . Harley will happily spend the rest of his life making sure Peter knows it—can’t imagine anything that’d make him happier, honestly—but it’s not something he can fix on his own. Still: there is no excuse for making it  _ worse,  _ especially over his own selfish desires. 

So he’s thinking he should reel it in about now. Fess up. Just lay it all out in front of Peter, how watching him be a total boss on the battlefield was incredibly hot and he was so intrigued by this side of him that he’d hardly had a glimpse of before the Spider-Man reveal that he couldn’t help trying to tease out more of it. And would Peter,  _ pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top _ , toss Harley over his superhumanly strong shoulder and carry him off to the bedroom and slam him down on a mattress and strip him bare and fuck him until the only word his tongue can shape is Peter’s name. 

And then lean down and swallow his own name off the back of Harley’s tongue. They can make the whipped cream literal if they want. Or Peter can take him up against a wall, easily holding Harley’s weight with one hand and working him open with the other, and Harley will use every breath he steals around desperate kisses to tell Peter how incredible he is, how just being near him makes every bad thing bearable, how he’s never felt so loved before, so hopeful, so good, so  _ safe.  _ How much he wants him, needs him, needs to feel him, feel like he belongs to him, feel him come apart  _ inside _ him...

Fuck.  _ Fuuuck.  _ He’s aching-hard and shaking again, desperate for touch, for release, but he can’t. He’s made a pact with himself that he’s not allowed that kind of release until he’s given it to Peter first, just to be fair. 

So: cold shower. And then the gym. He’s sore all over from training, needs to be extra aware or he’s gonna injure himself, but he’s here to train—and working his body to physical exhaustion is the only way he can keep the plan from failing. 

He’s spending an awful lot of time swearing and shivering in icy showers lately. 

_ Real smart, Harley.  _

He walks into the gym, goosebumps rising from water droplets dripping frigid down his neck, sees Peter, and almost does a 180. Catches himself just in time, because he knows,  _ knows,  _ that Peter will think the absolute worst if he sees Harley walking away from him. The absolute opposite of the overwhelming attraction that is making it hard to stay upright on suddenly liquid knees. 

_ He needs to know I adore him. Always always always want him. Even if it might actually kill me right at this second.  _

“Heya, gorgeous,” he says, going for casual and his usual sure grin. It doesn’t come out quite right, and  _ I need to just tell him _ has an apologetic confession writing itself out in his brain. Now to figure out how to get it out in an order that will make sense, make Peter listen to him, and then…

“Hi,” Peter says nervously. Looks at him hard, brows pulling together in that little frown that’s been showing up way too often lately. Looks like he’s going to ask something, but turns suddenly, arm shooting out to catch the projectile the training machine he’s working with lobs at him. It’s about the size of a bowling ball, but from the impact crater it makes when Peter throws it into the sand piled a meter-thick around this end of the gym—it weighs maybe 50 times more. 

Harley shivers, and not from his shower-chilled hair this time. A spray of smaller projectiles comes for Peter next, and he webs them up easily, looking over his shoulder at Harley the entire time. “Uh—did you want something? I can pause this program—or just stop, I’ve been at it a while—”

_ I want too much.  _ “Nah, do your thing,” Harley says quickly. He hasn’t figured out quite what to say, yet, and the whole point of the pending conversation is to not fuck things up. And also not kill the possibility of Peter wanting Harley in a way he seemingly never has, while Harley can’t think of anything else. “I have my own workout planned. We got all day, babe.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees, flipping backwards over a series of two-meter poles suddenly jutting up out of the sand. He sticks the landing perfectly, twisting around to get another look at Harley’s face. “...You’re not avoiding me, are you? If there’s something I—”

“Nope,” Harley says too quickly, but hopefully the fierce assurance of it is the part that comes through. “Kinda the opposite, darling. Gotta keep myself disciplined.”

A series of bamboo screens rises up around Peter, blocking his view of Harley and everything else. Harley makes use of the chance to escape over to the opposite end of the gym, where a row of punching bags and speedballs are set up, separated into human and superhuman durabilities. He’ll do a few sets while he gets his words figured out. Something like:  _ Peter I love you and I also love to tease you because there is no one on the face of this earth and probably 99% of other inhabited planets as delightful to tease as you are and also did you know that you’re literally too hot to handle and I desperately want you to fuck me and I know that’s not exactly the dynamic we have going now because we just kinda naturally fell into me being the one topping and please know that that it is the most sexy and blissful experience of my life and I definitely want to continue to experience it but also I want you to just let lose and hold me down and have your way with me but please don’t hate me or stop being attracted to me because I’m scary-in-love with you and that would actually kill me and of course you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to but consider: perhaps you could fuck me? _

Annnd this is why he needs time to come up with something that  _ isn’t that.  _ If what he wants doesn’t turn Peter off, expressing it in such a bumbling and incompetent manner just might. There’s got to be a way to do that whole “healthy communication” thing without humiliating himself or setting himself up for rejection—he’ll just beat out some of his innate dumbassery on an unfeeling punching bag or two while his supposedly-smart brain figures it out. Or not, because he’s only halfway through getting his gloves on when shattering wood snatches his attention back to Peter. 

Peter, who just smashed through one screen to grab a small blinking object, and is flipping backwards to launch feet-first off a second, before punching through a third to collect another of the blinking things. The poles are shooting up from the ground again, so he’s got obstacles on all sides, and one hand busy holding on to the little blinking orbs that must be part of the objective of this training exercise. Harley’s breath catches in his throat, awe and fear nearly paralyzing him. He’s watching his  _ boyfriend. _ Someone he gets to stand next to, hold hands with, cuddle, kiss…

Peter rips a huge chunk of bamboo lattice off its risers. Balances tip-toe on a single shooting pole as he whirls a shattering maelstrom of destruction on that impossible point—out of the blizzard of shrapnel, a slim arm extends, shooting a web to unerringly pluck a tiny target from the chaos. Peter catches the blinking sphere from his own web, pops it in his mouth, and uses his now-free hand to catch another of the bowling-ball projectiles and slam it down, landing lightly on the balls of his feet as the last of the dust settles. 

Harley watches him spit the little blinking orb back into his palm, swallowing hard. Mercy.  _ Mercy.  _ Now Peter is prowling towards him, stepping blithely around and over debris, and he’s wearing sweats and a tank top but the way he moves is  _ all _ Spider-Man. The Spider-Man he’s steadily growing into, poised and balanced and fucking  _ indomitable _ , one who fully owns the terrifying force of nature his powers let him be. 

Harley’s heart beats faster with each step Peter takes, pumping more and more excitedly until he can feel each beat against his ribs, and now he can’t breathe because each inhale gets stuck there too. Because what if Peter just  _ grabbed _ him? Picked him up and set him around his hips, Harley’s legs latched around that slim waist and Peter’s hands firm and possessive on his ass and Harley would put his head down and kiss him, get his hands in those baby-soft curls and pull Peter’s head back just enough to dominate, to totally own that perfect mouth until Peter decided to fix that and threw Harley down on one of the crash mats, crawled on top of him and—

“Uh, Harls? You okay?”

“I—yeah, uh—what?”

Peter’s staring at him worriedly. “I asked if you’d actually be okay talking now, because this is kind of really bothering me and I can’t focus and if you’ll just talk to me I promise I’ll let you get back to your own workout, I just—ugh. Um, you sure you’re okay? You look—”

It’s gone. Proud Predator Peter is curled in and buried. It’s really not that Harley loves meek, concerned Peter any less—it would be literally impossible for him to love any part of Peter with less than his entire being, he’s pretty sure his DNA is rewriting itself with _adore Peter Parker_ as baseline code—but he’s _burning. _He’s seen the fire in Peter, _felt_ it, and now it’s blazing inside in the most devastating, delicious way and he _needs_ _more._

“Kiss you?” he manages, closing in and wrestling his boxing gloves off because his fingers are all pins-and-needles with the need to wind in and around Peter’s hair and Peter’s mouth opens and words try to form but then he’s just nodding, and the gloves are  _ finally _ off and  _ yes yes yes  _ Peter’s curls are just as soft as they always are and the heat of his mouth is just as intoxicating and those arms are winding around Harley’s waist and Harley wonders…

“Hold me?” he gasps, and has his lips over Peter’s before Peter gets a chance to answer, but Peter's arms tighten obligingly, lift and secure as Harley hitches his legs up and around Peter’s hips and it’s  _ so good. _ Even better than he was imagining, just seconds before. 

“I love you so much,” he groans, lifting his chin blissfully as Peter’s mouth finds its way along his jawline and down his neck. “I  _ want you so much.  _ I want—I want—”

But he can’t say it. Freezing fear creeps over rising heat, and even if Harley knows it’s irrational, it’s no less dousing. Defeated, he lets his head and legs drop. Out of the clouds, back to solid ground. 

“Sorry, Petey,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to curls he’s already let go of. “Let’s stop, okay?”

Peter’s lips leave Harley’s neck, and he looks up, eyes wide with hurt. 

“Why? Why stop? See, this is—this is what we need to talk about. What am I doing wrong? Two seconds ago you said you wanted me, and now you want to stop? Are you  _ trying _ to drive me crazy?”

“Yes,” Harley blurts. “Yeah, I—but not in a bad way! Gods, I love you  _ so much _ . And I love teasing you so much. And I—I want—”

“So you  _ are _ teasing me?”

Harley nods vigorously. “An’ you didn’t do  _ anything _ wrong. Did everything right. I just… forgive me?”

“For what?” It’s careful. And confused. “Teasing me? Turning me on and leaving me high and dry? Not sure I can forgive that one, unless you make it up to me...” there’s just a hint of mischief lighting up Peter’s eyes at the end there, and Harley’s horrible, horny brain latches right onto it. 

“Oh, I will,” he promises. “But, uh, this thing I’ve… I gotta stop, huh?”

“Depends,” Peter says slowly, that spark of mischief growing, brightening his entire gorgeous face with challenge and curiosity. “What was it that you want? That you started saying. Turns out I really, _ really  _ want to know.”

“Uh...” his face is so hot, he’d bet money Peter can feel the heat from where he’s standing a foot away. “I...”  _ Shit.  _ Like the total coward he usually isn’t, Harley hides his face in his hands. “Can’t say it.”

“So you were going to tease me until I figured it out.”

“But I’ll stop, right now,” Harley hurries to reassure, dropping his hands to show honesty. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

Peter tilts his head. Fits soft fingers around Harley’s chin. “What if I want what  _ you _ want?”

And that’s it. Just that simple, infinitely caring touch, that unwavering courage, that playful almost-smile—Harley’s helpless, and hard, and his hands have found their way into Peter’s hair again all on their own. 

“A man can dream,” he says, going for light and easy but coming out raw. Hungry. “...Still can’t say it though.”

Peter meets his mouth with his own. Draws the kiss out, long and sweet, ends on a sigh of contentment and relief. “I was afraid I was what you  _ didn’t  _ want.”

“Never.  _ Never. _ ”

“Alright then, Harls,” Peter says very, very quietly, breath tracing Harley’s ear hot, leaving it cold. “Guess I’ll figure it out.” His body presses right up to Harley’s, solid muscle moving like water. The hand that comes up to trace the line of Harley’s cock through his sweats is anything but innocent. “Tease away,” he whispers. Bites down just slightly on the tender tip of Harley’s earlobe, then draws it through soft, wet warmth, suckling for just a second. “Ready when you are, Keener.”

And then he’s gone, walking away with head held high, that irresistible strength and grace in every line and limb and movement. Harley’s left standing and staring with open mouth and empty, shaking fingers, more hopelessly, helplessly turned on than ever. 


	4. Chapter Four

_ “Harley,” Peter moans, head tilted back. His boyfriend’s lips latch onto his throat and he hisses at how the gentle touch lights his skin up. “God, Harley…” _

_ “Love you,” Harley murmurs, pulling back. He’s glistening with sweat, perched on top of Peter with his eyes rolling to the ceiling. He lifts himself up on his knees, muscles taut and, and—he’s the most beautiful thing Peter’s ever seen, he loves him, he— _

_ “Shit, honey,” Peter gasps, sitting up and reaching for the back of Harley’s neck. He pulls him in for a kiss. “You’re gorgeous.” _

_ “And you’re practically a genius,” Harley whimpers into Peter’s mouth. “So why the hell can’t you figure this out?” _

Peter wakes up in bed with a cry, making a mess of his pajama shorts. He’s not in Harley’s apartment. He’s in his bedroom at the compound, heart bursting from his ribcage. He’s hot and sticky and terribly uncomfortable, an image of how wrecked Harley was still shining behind his eyelids. 

_ Fuck _ , he thinks, pushing onto his arms. He’s come on his stomach, which means it’s fucking everywhere. Not only that, but he’s wide awake and still unsatisfied. 

_ “What if I want what  _ you _ want?” _

_ “A man can dream. Still can’t say it though.” _

_ “I was afraid I was what you didn’t want.” _

_ “Never,  _ never _ .” _

_ “Alright then, Harls. Guess I’ll figure it out.” _

Peter turns the memory over in his mind while climbing from the bed for clean-up. He knows that Harley wants something, knows that Harley is frustrated and embarrassed. Peter doesn’t understand why he’s not talking. He can easily recall how terrified Harley sounded, the way he choked on his own words when trying to express himself. It doesn’t match up with Harley’s normal confidence, his usual take-what-you-want attitude. What is it that he wants to bring into the bedroom that has him physically incapable of voicing it? Could it really be so terrible?

After changing, he changes into fresh boxers and gathers his sheets and discarded clothes. Carrying the laundry through the Stark apartment (which Tony and Pepper insisted he live in) feels a little weird, but he takes comfort in the fact that he can hear all three sleeping soundly. He honestly can’t imagine coming across Morgan with sheets and clothes that reek of sex. 

Or Tony. 

God, Tony. 

In the laundry room, he finds himself painfully awake and sets to the mundane task of laundry. His dream filters through his mind again. Harley and him having sex, good sex, until Harley says those breathless words.  _ And you’re practically a genius, so why the hell can’t you figure this out? _

“Yeah,” he grumbles to himself, shutting the lid. “I am highly intelligent. So what the fuck, Parker?”

“You never say that.”

Peter jumps in his skin. When he turns, Morgan is crossing her arms in the doorway of the laundry room, frowning slightly. At sixteen years old, she’s mastered Tony’s eccentricity and Pepper’s fear-inducing disapproval. Peter balances between shame at not recognizing her presence and horror that he seems to have thought his fear into reality. 

Since when has his life become such a goddamn mess?

“Sorry, Monkey,” Peter flinches. “What are you doing up?”

“I went to get water and saw the light,” she says lightly. “Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugs. “Decided to do some laundry.”

“Something’s wrong,” she accuses, ever observant. “Wanna watch Star Wars?”

He shouldn’t be so easily manipulated. 

And yet.

It’s 2:47 in the morning, and he’s curled up on the couch with Morgan. They spend a long time in silence, Peter honestly appreciating the fact that she is able to diverge all thoughts of sexual frustration. He’s moved past his fear at being caught by her to overjoyed at feeling relaxed for the first time in three weeks. Nothing kills the mood like hanging out with your little sister. 

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Morgan asks, tone gentle. She’s got her head on Peter’s shoulder. “You’ve been in a mood lately.”

“Have not,” he mutters. 

“Have to.”

Peter tries to keep himself from pouting. 

“Harley and I are having a weird time,” he confesses. “There’s something blocking our relationship from progressing, something to keep us from getting closer.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Peter says. “He won’t—or can’t—tell me. He tried to. He can’t, though, and it's like he wants me to figure it out.”

“So?” Morgan sits up and looks at him. “Figure it out, Petey.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I feel like it is.”

“It’s not.”

“Come on,” she drawls. “You not being able to solve this is ridiculous. What have you done to figure it out?”

Peter colors. “Well, I’ve been thinking about it.”

Morgan looks severely unimpressed. There’s the fear-inducing disappointment. “What are you, a fucking philosopher?”

“What—no!”

“You’re a Stark, Peter. A scientist. Act like it, and ask yourself what Daddy would do.”

He runs it through his mind. Every time Tony has a theory, a question, a misunderstanding, he always gets the solution—whether he likes it or not. And how does he get that solution?

Oh…  _ duh. _

“You’re saying… run an experiment,” Peter says carefully. He feels like an idiot for not seeing it sooner. Of course! Morgan is right, he is a scientist. He poses a question, hypothesizes an answer, and seeks to prove it. When he doesn’t, he changes the hypothesis and tries again. Trial and error. Figuring it out isn’t going to be done by sitting on his ass and thinking. He needs action. 

“There he is,” Morgan grins, settling back down. She focuses on Luke Skywalker. “Best get to building a hypothesis, dumbass.”

* * *

The next week is long and frustrating. 

Harley, on any given day, looks better than any person has any right to. He wears shirts that show a hint of his tattoo, a perpetual tease. His jeans are somehow always tight, following lines of growing muscles and slim hips. There’s a swagger he carries, an ease that somehow calls attention and yet seems like he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

Or, the smile he wears that is currently being aimed at Peter across the Stark Industries boardroom. His teeth have an oddly sharp look to them, giving him a wolfish sort of smile. In a room full of people where he has to make it clear that he’s one of the top bosses, it’s almost easy to believe that he would willingly tear into the people around him. 

Peter is blissfully reminded of the time Harley came to visit him at school, marking him up so successfully with those teeth that the bruises actually remained for  _ two days _ . He’s got a pulse of want firing through his body at the memory. 

“Mr. Parker,” a board member snaps. “Care to join the discussion?”

Peter holds back a grimace. “I’m not sure what else there is to say, Xander. I agree with Mr. Keener.”

“Because you’re sleeping together?” Xander snarls.

Peter feels the accusation sting and his fists clench. Honestly, he’s too worked up to deal with this asshat today. Xander hates Peter and Harley for being the chosen inheritors and claiming they “haven’t lifted a finger” to earn the title. They already spend enough time proving themselves capable of making decisions and working in the labs, simultaneously following Tony and Steve’s superhero training. 

Also, Peter is very frustrated. 

“No,” Peter growls. “And you better be careful about who you accuse of letting their sexual partner influence them when you’re the one who fucked a senator to get a vote passed.”

Xander stands with a cry of indignation. Peter stands too, leaning across the table and facing him head on. “I swear to God, Parker.”

“You swear what?” Peter returns sharply. He resists the urge to let a lip curl. “Please, give me a reason to call for a vote to get you the fuck out of here.”

“Enough!” Pepper yells over Xander’s response. “Honestly, this is completely out of character and inappropriate, for the both of you. We will table this meeting, but squabbling like children will not be tolerated. Meeting dismissed.”

Some of the board members bristle. 

“Dismissed,” Pepper repeats firmly. “Please raise a hand if you agree to a meeting tomorrow morning at nine am to pick up the discussion.”

Everyone raises their hands. 

“Excellent, we will see you all then.”

Peter remains in the room, letting everyone else file out. He can feel Harley’s gaze burning through him. He’s already thinking about how he’s going to explain his behavior, but what can he say?

_ I’m horny and preoccupied and acting like a child. I’m being unprofessional because, like some sexually frustrated teenager, I’m worked up. And it’s because I’ve decided to take on your challenge and figure how what you want from our sex life. Which, I have a list of questions that we have to get through by the way— _

This never happens. Instead, Harley shows reflexes Peter hasn’t been aware of until recently to hop on the table. “Friday, Privacy Protocol,  _ now _ .”

Metal blinds shut down over the windows and doors. Peter is speechless as Harley, visibly flushed and eyes a little cloudy, plops into Peter’s lap and settles in a straddle like he’s making a home there. “Harls?”

“The fuck,” Harley murmurs, hands twisting into Peter’s hair. “Honestly, darlin’, what the fuck was that explosion?”

“I—” Peter doesn’t know what to say because Harley is hard against him. “Did that—how long—”

“The second you jumped down Xander’s throat,” Harley answers. “God, you said ‘fuck’ and that never happens. You did this thing, and you looked so good, you’re fucking incredible Peter—”

Peter kisses Harley. He can’t believe that losing his temper is attractive to Harley and would otherwise be concerned if something hasn’t just clicked in his brain. 

Intensity. 

Harley moans as Peter licks into his mouth, tasting his favorite mint that’s just dissolved on his tongue. The taste sends Peter’s senses firing and he grabs Harley’s thighs. He makes them stand so Harley is propped on the table and Peter can lean over his normally-taller boyfriend. The simple move makes Harley’s heart rate spike—almost dangerously, Peter thinks—and he tugs on Peter’s hair hard enough that it might be painful for someone else. 

“Goddamn it, sweetheart.” Harley’s hips stutter. “You’re-you’re—”

“Taking charge,” Peter finished sharply. He kisses Harley once more before gently maneuvering his shoulders back and contrasting it with a quick jerk of Harley’s shirt. “Think you can keep quiet?”

“Peter, what is happening?” Harley looks helplessly dazed, nails marking up the otherwise perfection of the wooden table. 

“If you are amenable,” Peter kneels, tugging at Harley’s belt. “You’re going to sit back and let me have my way.”

Harley’s head drops back—not unlike in Peter’s dream. “Holy hell.”

“I love you.” Peter holds Harley’s hips still and kisses along the bone. “God, I’ve been thinking about tasting you for weeks. Christ—you’re so ready for me. I almost don’t want to prep.”

Harley looks  _ wrecked and weak and helplessly in love _ as Peter takes him in his mouth. Something strangled falls from Harley's lips, one of his hands immediately flying to Peter's hair to anchor him. If Peter wasn't hard before, he's aching now, wondering if he's going to come undone just from how fucking wrecked Harley already is, how  _ heavy _ and  _ hot _ he is in Peter’s mouth.

"Darlin,  _ fuck, _ Peter," Harley rasps, now shaking and propped on one elbow. "Fuck me, right now,  _ I swear to God if I don't get my hands on you— _ "

And really… how is Peter supposed to say no to  _ that _ ? 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Peter thinks he's figured it out, but he's just slightly off course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically all sex. This is where the rating comes in, folks!

Harley’s everything has focused laser-sharp on exactly one need: Peter. He can’t think, can hardly speak or move or do anything but stare as Peter rakes his eyes over him, hungry and fierce and so obviously pleased with what he sees. Harley can’t help but spread himself out on the table, preening and proud and very much focused on giving Peter anything— _ everything _ . So long as he can get his hands on him, taste him and touch him and  _ feel  _ him—no,  _ no _ , why is he stepping away?

“Don’t move,” Peter warns, voice raw and low and immediately making Harley disobey what he says. He can’t control the desperate curl of his hips. Or the moan that leaves his mouth. “God, I’m not going to last. Not with you looking like that. Sounding like that. You’re  _ perfect. _ Just—stay—give me a sec—” He’s going through the pockets of the jacket he’d folded over the back of his chair, and Harley can see his fingers shaking. Comes up with lube and a condom and a grin, and Harley can’t help but smile back, a helpless little laugh escaping. 

“Optimistic, honey boy?”

“I’ve been  _ really _ ready to figure this out,” Peter huffs, and then he’s stripping. 

Harley’s fingertips press desperately into the table top. For all the times he’s been lucky enough to see Peter naked, he’s nowhere close to taking it for granted. Peter may be smaller than him, but there is steely strength hinted in every shift of perfectly defined muscle. Harley wasn’t kidding when he told Peter he looked better than any marble carving of any idealized Greek god. Now that he knows a bit more about just how  _ much _ power Peter can pull from that lithe body—he’s not going to make it. 

He doesn’t know what Peter is planning—if he finally,  _ finally _ got the message and is going to follow orders for once and take Harley’s  _ fuck me _ literally—or if he’s going to climb up on the table and hold Harley down while he rides him—right at this moment: Harley does not care. All he wants is every bit of Peter he can get, and right now Peter is giving him an eyeful. He watches Peter’s hands as he slips his slacks down his thighs. Watches those beautiful thighs flex as he steps out of trousers. Shudders as elegant fingers rip button after button in their hurry to bare that perfect chest, those strong and sure arms Harley is secretly glad Peter tends to keep covered because he finds them  _ incredibly  _ distracting _ .  _

Peter ducks down to work off socks and shoes, and Harley hurries to toe his own shoes off, tugs clumsily at his trousers. His shirt is rucked up to his chest, tie askew over his shoulder, and he barely gets his feet up and braced on the table before Peter is climbing up and straddling him, all grace and ease and sheer, naked glory. 

“Fuck,” Harley whispers. He wants to take in everything, appreciate every perfect inch of Peter, but right now all he can see is Peter’s cock. Full and erect and  _ right there _ and he wants it in hands, in his mouth, in  _ him. _ The thought makes him dizzy, desire flushing through him like a fever, and scared. He’s never bottomed before. Never felt safe enough to try it with a partner, though he’s experimented enough on his own to know that he wants it, with Peter. He’s completely safe, with Peter. Has never been so protected, so wanted, so  _ loved.  _

“Harley...” Peter looks like he’s on the very edge of control. Trembles. Bites his own lip hard, eyelids fluttering shut over irises swallowed black with want. But he masters himself and stills: jaw set, lips spreading into a devil’s grin, eyes flying open to catch Harley in the all the burning challenge and intent Harley’s craved from the battlefield. Harley  _ whimpers.  _

His hips try to move, his hands reach on their own to grab, hold on, never let go—but he can’t. Peter’s knees tighten around his hips, won't let them leave the table; his hands trap Harley’s, lace fingers delicately through his own, careful and tender, and even if Harley threw all of his own not-inconsiderable strength into it, his hands aren’t going anywhere. “You’re so ready,” Peter croons. “And so  _ hot _ , fuck,  _ help _ , but I gotta prep. Stay still. You can look, but you can’t touch.”

“Peter, fuck,  _ Peter— _ ” 

“Hands on the table,” Peter orders, and puts them there. Harley digs his fingertips into the ungiving surface, biting lips that want to beg. Peter is pouring lube over his fingers. Rises up, knees still pinning Harley’s hips. Reaches down between his legs, past his leaking cock—he hasn’t touched himself, or let Harley touch him, not even once—and starts working himself open. 

Harley might die. He might die, right here right now, splayed out on a conference room table and watching his boyfriend shudder and curse as he fingers himself, and it will be worth it. His heart is pounding and he’s breathing in embarrassingly desperate pants and stuttered swears and Peter’s watching him as he presses fingers in, stretches, shudders, adds a third. Looks at Harley like he’s seeing the only thing he ever wants to see.

“Harley, H-harley,” Peter gasps. “God, you—I need you, I  _ need _ you—look at me, Harley, look at how much I want you, I’ve been  _ dreaming _ about you, I’m gonna be so good for you, I’m going to give you everything, always, Harley,  _ Harley— _ ”

He has to grab himself. Is imagining those fingers in  _ him,  _ working  _ him _ open, feels the orgasm coming, pounding—tightens index and thumb around the base of his cock, swearing. Not yet.  _ Not yet.  _

“Almost there,” Peter whispers. “Almost ready, baby, hold on for me, hold on—” and then he bites off on a breath that’s more of a whine, and scrabbles desperately for where the condom waits on the table. “You open it,” he says. “If I try I’ll rip it—”

Harley does. It takes a few attempts with how he’s shaking, but he manages to slide it over his cock easily enough. Thank  _ fuck.  _

“Peter,” he says, half warning, half begging. “If you don’t let me start touching you—”

“Hold me,” Peter commands, and guides Harley’s hands to his hips. Hisses and trembles as Harley’s fingertips dig into his ass, as he fits himself over Harley. 

Harley’s head hits the table. He’s in Peter, not Peter in him, but it’s—it’s perfect, and too much, pressure and heat and pleasure he can’t believe he’s been denying himself. Denying both of them. 

Peter leans down carefully, slowly, until his mouth is on Harley’s. Hungry and hot, half-kissing half-swearing, and Harley just takes it, open for Peter’s tongue and Peter’s need but unable to reciprocate. To do anything but hold painfully, desperately still, because Peter’s taken him in all at once, all the way to the hilt, and the intensity of sensation is absolute and overwhelming. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ as Harley’s entire body winds tighter and tighter in the battle to hold still, to wait; as pleasure sparks and burns and the instinct to fight for control, to flip them over and fuck Peter until neither of them can think or speak or move grows unbearably urgent—Peter starts moving. Slowly at first, finding exactly where he needs to be, where he needs Harley, shifting balance and angles and rhythm—and then he finds it. 

It's a vision Harley hopes to never forget: Peter's hands, caressing and bracing against his own thighs as he rises and falls, head thrown back, breath catching every time he sinks all the way down. Until one hand comes up, fingers pinching at an erect nipple as catching, shuddering breaths turning into little cries and the speed is mounting, mounting, mounting, rising with blissful painful pressure and Harley’s  _ losing it. _

His fingers dig white into Peter’s hips, holding on and holding him open, and words are gone and control is gone and all he can see is Peter. The bared curve of his neck; the way his fingertips tug and roll first one nipple, than the other; the fluid flex of thick strong thighs and tight abs and sturdy shoulders rolling and shuddering, beading with sweat as the pace punishes  _ faster.  _ All he can think is Peter _ , _ all he can feel is Peter, and he’s never felt so  _ much. _ He doesn’t know if he’ll survive—his vision is blinding white, the intensity of sensation is elevating, breath-stealing, painful—and gods,  _ gods, Peter.  _

“Peter—” it’s almost a sob. “ _ Peter— _ ”

“You feel so good in me,” Peter pants. “God, Harley, go—Ha— _ Harley— _ ”

He comes untouched, shaking and shuddering, rhythm stuttering as he fucks himself through it, and Harley sees: open mouth, bliss-closed eyes, pure corded muscle along his neck and down the perfect symmetry of his chest and abdomen to the proud wet cock. Pulsing tight around Harley, buried deep in Peter.

And then Harley can’t see anything. Cries and spasms against the table as orgasm hits, jerking helplessly as wave after wave washes over him. He can feel Peter and hear Peter and he holds to that comfort, that absolute safety and warmth, gives in entirely to it. Is defenseless and open to every sensation, every roll of relief and release and tingling delight. He wasn’t sure he’d survive. Right at this moment, he’s pretty sure he’ll live forever. 

“Love you,” Peter mumbles. Again and again, dropping tiny sloppy kisses in between. Harley makes the massive effort to get his arms to move—his limbs are all spent and limp, haven’t stopped trembling—folds his boyfriend against his chest, cuddled and warm, as their hearts race each other, and their breaths even out in lungs-against-lungs, until everything that was frantic is soft and everything that was rushed is slow. 

Very, very slow. They’ve really made a mess, and much as Harley wants to give in to sleep right here, to not even consider letting Peter out of his arms, he’s starting to remember where they are. A conference table is not exactly comfortable, even basking in the afterglow; and while FRIDAY’s privacy protocol protects them, they’re still in a very public place. Will have to walk through even more public places to get to, say, Peter’s room, where they can shower and change and maybe get some quality spooning time on Peter’s very comfortable bed. 

He’s missed that bed. 

Peter finds tissues to wipe them both down as well as he can, and sets one of the room’s little janitor bots to cleaning. His designer dress shirt is missing most of its buttons and he’s walking a little funny and Harley keeps interrupting his set-everything-to-rights efforts to steal little kisses until he finally gives in and settles a little gingerly on Harley’s lap. Where he puts himself to work combing Harley’s hair with gentle fingers, trying to make it a little less obvious that he’d just pinned his boyfriend to a conference table and fucked them both senseless. 

“I’m in love with you,” Harley tells him, voice raw, rough from crying out, from breathing hard and fast and desperate. “I’m so fucking in love with you, Peter Parker, I don’t know what to do with myself. Please let me keep loving you. Gods, please.”

“You’re not allowed to do anything else,” Peter says firmly, tucking curls behind one of Harley’s ears and then kissing it. “Especially now that I’ve figured it out. God, I thought the sex we were having before was amazing. And it was, and I definitely want to keep doing it. But as frustrating as all this has been, I’ll admit all your teasing was worth it. Because fuck, Harley, that was...that was incredible. And fun. And really,  _ really _ hot.”

Harley believes him, because—unbelievably, and it’s unfair and Harley’s blaming it on radioactive spider genes because wow,  _ fuck _ —Peter is hard again. Hard enough for it to be obvious through his newly-donned dress pants. 

Harley wraps his arms around him, pinches lightly at one pert buttock, drops tiny chaste kisses up his neck. 

“Yeah?” he says. “Well that sure is good to hear, darlin’, because you haven’t actually figured it out.”

Peter says, “What—?” and then gasps, because Harley has licked into the shell of his ear exactly the way Peter likes, both his hands firm on Peter’s ass. 

“Wouldn’t want that genius brain of yours to get bored,” Harley teases, one hand coming around to rub lazily along the inside of Peter’s thigh, the other brushing the length of his spine, all the way up to the back of his neck. “But feel free to try more experiments like this one until you get it.” And with a wink and a kiss, he gently shoves Peter off his lap. Stands, stretches, kisses the intrigued, frustrated frown bunching up Peter’s brows. “Don't worry about it right now, Petey. Right now all I want is a shower. And a nap. Both with you, if that's okay—”

“More than okay,” Peter says. Sighs but also smiles, offering his hand almost shyly for Harley to hold. 

They get a few knowing and some judging looks on the way to the elevator. It's all good. Not much matters beyond the man beside him, and the newly-reclaimed ease between them. 

He wants Peter, and Peter wants him, and the details of that may not always match up but—Harley can live with that. Can bury desires he’s not brave enough to speak. 

How could he want more? As long as Peter wants to be with him, as long as Peter lets Harley love him, loves him in return—he has  _ everything.  _


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has commented/read, thank you so much! We love you all <3
> 
> This is for you, Iz ;) the whole goal was writing Top!Peter after that chat in the discord, so enjoy *kisses*  
(and special shoutout to Madi and Rax for reading and editing. Ya'll are super cool.)

“When are you coming back to the compound?”

Peter looks through the glass, where Harley is still sleeping soundly in his bed. “Harley and I have that meeting with Pep and the board tomorrow morning, so I think we’re just going to stay at the tower for the night. We need some time to ourselves.”

“Everything okay?” Tony asks, careful. “We’ve all noticed something weird going on, but wanted to leave you to your own devices. Morgan knowing more than me makes me feel hurt, I have to say.”

“How  _ ever _ will you survive?” Peter rolls his eyes despite Tony not being able to see. “And yeah, we’re okay. Just figuring some stuff out. I… Tony, I really love him. This goes past whatever friendship we managed to build in the past few years. I love him, and I want things between us to work. For that to happen, there are some kinks we need some alone time to work out.”

“Kinks? Fucking hell, I knew this was about sex—”

“Oh my god, I meant mechanical, I wouldn’t talk to you about sex!”

“I shudder at the thought. My kids having sex. Disgusting.”

“Why are you like this?”

“I love you and live to make your life miserable,” Tony answers in an almost bored tone of voice. When Peter only huffs in response, he chuckles. “Alright kid, it’s late. I love you. Figure out whatever it is that’s going on, have your meeting, and then book it back to the compound for training, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

When they hang up, Peter carefully leaves the balcony and heads back into the room. The sight of Harley, curled around Peter’s pillow and fast asleep makes his heart stop for a moment. It’s impossible not to try and study the moment, capture what’s happening because has it really been weeks since this happened? Since Harley was naked, comforter kicked off the bed so he’s only sleeping with the top sheet twisted around his ankles? Has it really been weeks since Peter got to see blond curls sticking up between pillows because Harley’s head always ends up  _ directly in the middle of the bed _ instead of on an actual pillow?

His lips are parted, he’s snoring lightly, and he’s the most beautiful thing Peter’s ever seen. He loves Harley, desperately, and he’s missed the comfort of them existing in the same place. The brief thought of  _ Let’s move in together _ floats through his mind and he wonders if it’s too soon before he decides he doesn’t care. He loves Harley. Harley loves him. 

And so he eases back into the bed, sliding beneath the single sheet and searching out Harley’s warmth. His room is freezing due to Harley’s penchant for being a human furnace. The other man willingly curls up against Peter’s chest, the snores only pausing long enough for him to swallow and sigh and adjust so that they're snuggling beneath the sheets. Peter wonders if there are enough words in enough languages to explain the feeling that shoots through him when he feels Harley’s forehead nuzzle against his collar in search of nothing but closeness and affection. 

That’s what they’ve been missing the past few weeks. 

Closeness.

Now, Peter knows that not all people need sex to make a relationship fulfilling. The two of them, though, have learned to use it as a way to express themselves to each other. Peter knows Harley struggles with being open and yet is always willing to be vulnerable for Peter in bed—to let down his guard, to love him openly and admit to how much they want and need each other. When words fail, it can be a way to communicate and express their emotions together. 

Harley is scared of whatever he wants, of it scaring off Peter. Peter needs to show him that nothing will, that Harley can trust him with his desires and his love. Peter will take care of him, can safeguard him, will give him anything he wants. How does he show that to Harley, get Harley to trust him?

And then, he remembers. 

_ “I’ll take care of you,” Harley whispers, fingers dancing across the curve of Peter’s ass. “Trust me, okay?” _

_ Peter nods. “I do, I trust you.” _

Peter sits up almost violently as he feels incredibly stupid for not seeing it sooner. 

Harley wants to be vulnerable, to trust Peter with his desires. 

His dreams about Harley riding him.

Their first conversation about sex. 

_ “Do you have a preference for top or bottom?” _

_ “I’m, um, I generally bottom. Like to let someone have control and all. You?” _

_ “Depends on the partner. I’m comfortable with whatever you want, darlin'.” _

Harley’s desperate, _ “Fuck me, right now—” _

“Peter?” Harley whispers from beside him, no doubt awake and worried at Peter’s harsh movements. “Darlin, is everything okay?”

Peter turns and reaches out to cup Harley’s face. “You were worried I wouldn’t want to switch.”

The reaction is immediate. Harley’s eyes close and his head drops into Peter’s palm for support. There’s a soft, shuddering breath as he reaches his own hands to twist into Peter’s t-shirt. Peter slides his hand to the back of Harley’s neck. He pulls him closer so that Harley is tucking his face into Peter’s neck and getting control of his breathing. 

“You’ve never topped anyone,” Harley says, voice muffled. “And I’ve met guys who just don’t like it, who only want to bottom, and I didn’t want anything to get in the way of us being together, so I was scared you were going to say no and it was going to mess everything up.”

“Harley,” Peter sighs. He leans down to kiss him. “I love you. I want what you want.”

“I know you do, because you’re extraordinary, and you love me so well, it’s just…” Harley trails off and sits up to look Peter in the eye. “I was fine topping, I swear, I love fucking you so much. But after I found out you were Spider-Man, there’s just been this… awe… that I feel around you. You carry so much strength and power and you could hold me down and make me lose my fucking mind. So I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and wanting it, but I want you more, so I didn’t want to scare you.”

Harley’s talking quickly, as if he’s been holding this back for ages. 

“So I thought, maybe, if I teased you and frustrated you enough, you would just kind of… do it? And then I thought about how messed up that was, and you thought I didn’t want you, but I just didn’t know how to express it because every time I tried I would just stop because I love you, Peter Parker, and I need you. And I know that you’re always scared of hurting me, but I trust you. I trust you to take care of me, even if you bend me over and tear me apart. I’m sorry I haven’t been honest and that I wasn’t able to tell you—”

“Honey,” Peter cuts him off, brushing a fallen tear from his cheek. “I love you. I know I say it a lot, and I am going to keep saying it. I love you, and it’s okay. Do I want you to be honest with me? Always. But I agreed to try and figure this out because I could tell you were struggling. Sometimes we have to meet each other in the middle to help, and that’s fine. We’re fine.”

Harley closes his eyes again with a small sniffle. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Peter assures him. He leans in to kiss Harley then, lips firm and demanding. He’s pleased when Harley complies, parting his own lips to let Peter in, to taste each other and draw closer. Harley is always more intense when they’ve shared something emotional, and this is no different. His body rolls to settle against Peter, winding his arms around Peter’s neck to be held easier. The only space now between them is Peter’s t-shirt and boxers. 

“For the record,” Peter breathes against Harley’s kiss. “I will gladly fuck you into this mattress until you see stars.”

Harley’s body shudders before his hands start pulling at the back of Peter’s t-shirt. Together, they pull it off before falling into the mattress while their lips meet again. Peter’s heart thuds against his chest at the feeling of his boyfriend’s smooth skin against him. He needs to stay moderately composed because he’s going to do this—going to fuck Harley—and he’s actually scared. Harley is doing something that requires trust, that requires Peter to recognize the body he’s holding is human and brittle in comparison to the strength that he carries in his hands. Right now, he has a responsibility to take care of the man he loves and not break him in half. 

Control, however, is oh so hard when Harley slides his hands over Peter’s ass and uses it as an anchor to grind. 

“Shit,” Peter gasps, forehead dropping to Harley’s collarbone. There’s a delicious friction between them at every possible angle, and he wants to focus on all of it: Harley’s fingers kneading the muscles of his ass, the heat pooling at the base of his spine, the way Harley’s breath comes out in little pants against his temple… the way he’s hard and aching at the shift of Harley’s hips pressing their cocks together. God, he could come like this, laying on their sides in a game of push-and-pull. 

_ But, _ Peter remembers.  _ This isn’t the game he wants.  _

He rolls so that Harley is beneath him. Peter pries his lips away from his boyfriend’s to begin tasting all of him. He licks along the shell of his ear, nibbles at the lobe and enjoys the sharp cries of arousal that drags from Harley. His mind is blurring into a haze of want, need, fuck, taste and he  _ really _ wants Harley to feel the same way. 

He continues on his path of mapping every inch of Harley with his mouth. After sucking a bruise into Harley’s collarbone, he pulls back to enjoy his handy work and feels his hips thrust into Harley’s legs of their accord. Harley looks wrecked, laid out on the bed with glassy eyes, mussed up hair, and a mark on his skin that clearly communicates belonging. 

Peter is going to cover Harley in that, claim him, make sure there’s no way Harley can be mistaken as anybody but his. 

And if he groans out  _ mine _ , as he marks his way down Harley’s torso, well… Harley’s reply of  _ yours, fuck, I swear darlin’ _ says all that he needs to hear. 

Peter’s works loses precision as he trails farther down. By the time he’s got his head between Harley’s thighs, his kisses are wet and fast, the goal of having Harley in his mouth taking over every other need. He forces himself to pull away. “Roll over.”

Harley nods almost deliriously, and obeys. 

Peter can’t help but groan at the sight of Harley, stretched out and bare before him. The blond’s hands are twisted into the sheets, arms shaking and sweat glistening along his spine. Peter gives in to the urge to duck down and bite into the shoulder blade. He wants so badly to make this last, to trail along Harley’s skin on this half of his body with open-mouthed kisses and teasing touches, but he knows it's impossible. When he trails his lips down to kiss at the hollow of Harley’s back and Harley bucks into the sheets with a gasping moan, Peter gives up. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he rasps, kneeling behind Harley. He uses one hand to grab Harley’s hip and effortlessly lift him up so that he can’t grind into the sheets. Harley whimpers—whether from the denial of friction or the show of strength, Peter doesn’t know—and props up on his elbows. Pleased with the obedience, Peter lets go of his hip. 

“Sweetheart, please, touch me, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.”

Instead of answering, Peter just leans over to his bedside table for the lube. Almost fumbling, he gets some on his fingers and reaches for Harley. He’s terrified to do this wrong, but he knows this is what Harley wants. He also knows what it feels like, right? He can do this.

He can. 

Harley shivers when Peter lifts his hips again, drawing him closer to where he’s kneeling. He carefully slides one finger down and dips into Harley. His boyfriend preens, pressing back with his head dipped toward mattress. Peter takes this as encouragement and pushes further in, marveling at the tight heat. 

“You can—” Harley’s voice is strained and weak. “You can do more.”

Peter obliges, sliding another finger in. He catches how Harley’s heart rate increases and his muscles shake against his touch. He twists his hand slightly, crooking his fingers and feeling the heat in his spine flash through him at how Harley clenches around him, whimpering. It’s gorgeous and irresistible how Harley’s sweating and shaking, letting Peter work him open. He adds another finger and thinks that if he were to die right now, Harley on his knees and gasping, he wouldn’t mind at all. 

He decides to stop torturing them both. He uses the hand that’s not stretching Harley’s muscles to grab the condom, using teeth to carefully open it and praising whatever divine beings exist that he doesn’t rip it. Rolling it on himself, he carefully retracts his fingers.

Harley whines. “Peter, sweetheart, please—”

“I’ve got you,” Peter murmurs. He pushes Harley’s thighs farther apart and moves more comfortably in between them. His hands grab Harley’s hips. “I love you, baby, I’ve got you.”

Harley nods. Peter knows that next time, he’s going to have Harley on his back and looking at him while they make love, but right now he has a promise to deliver. 

So, disregarding his hesitancy, he pushes in. 

A heavy-sounding  _ fuuuuck _ is dragged from Harley’s lips as Peter eases in, and it’s everything to not cum right then and there. Harley feels incredible, sounds incredible, looks…

There are no words, Peter thinks, easing in just a little more. Nothing could describe the heat, the way his boyfriend pushes back and moans with his head tossed in the air. 

“God, Harley,” Peter hisses. “You’re a fucking masterpiece, baby.”

Harley pushes back then, desperate and needy as if he’s going to fuck himself on Peter’s cock. Peter tightens his grip, deep as he can, and holds Harley still. “Peter.”

“I don’t think so,” Peter reprimands. “If you’re ready for me to move, be a good boy and ask.”

Harley twists his head over his shoulder, eyes watering and face deliciously flushed. Curls sticking to his forehead and his neck. “Please, honey, please, fuck me, I swear to God if you don’t—”

Peter cuts him off with a short thrust. Harley cries out, arms giving out so he’s got his face pressed into a pillow to catch the noise. Peter moves again, deciding they’ll experiment with slow and sweet later. They’re both close to losing it, and Peter just needs to close his eyes and let go.

So, he does. 

He keeps Harley as still as possible so he can’t do anything but let Peter fuck him. It’s like nothing Peter’s ever felt before, having Harley at his mercy and loving it. His thrusts are fast but hard and obscene sounding as flesh hits flesh and Harley’s words become a stream of babbling pleads mixed with Peter’s name. It blends perfectly with the soundtrack of air whooshing from Harley’s lungs every time Peter pushes back in, with the way their hearts will surely burst from their ribcages if they beat one more time.

The hair on the end of Peter’s arms stand up and he knows, _ knows Harley’s about to lose it— _

The sob that rips from Harley’s throat is music and relief, reverberating through the room. Peter feels it in his bones and follows his boyfriend over the edge. It surpasses expectations; his vision blurs around everything except Harley, whose form is as clear as day, rocking back into Peter with an abandon he hasn’t seen in a while. It’s remarkable, how it feels to have his orgasm drawn out of him like that. 

When he eases out of Harley, he messily ties off the condom and throws it towards the bin in his room. Harley, for all his movement only moments ago, is now boneless in the sheets and probably his own mess. Peter can’t help but lean down and press his lips to the mouth that’s turned towards him, eyes heavy lidded and pleased. 

“Let’s move in together,” Peter murmurs. “Here, in Manhattan, in the compound. I love you, and if you don’t want space, neither do I.”

“Peter, sweetheart,” Harley giggles, pushing himself onto his side. “If you think I’m letting you go anywhere without me ever again, you’re insane.”

Peter beams, kissing Harley again until neither have any air left in their lungs. When they pull apart, he reaches for Harley’s legs and tugs him close into a bridal carry. “Let’s get cleaned up, and then sleep for ten years. Deal?”

“Deal,” Harley drawls. “But I want a fabulous breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Peter kisses his forehead. “Anything you want, baby.”

He knows Harley hears the deeper meaning, because his blond head ducks to snuggle into Peter’s neck. “I love you, Peter Parker.”

Peter feels warmth spread to his fingertips. At the end of the day, Harley Keener loves Peter Parker… and nothing else really matters. 


End file.
